We suffer a lot the few things we lack and we enjoy too little the many things we have.
How easy it is for the proper-false in woman's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on his back.
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily... is wasteful and ridiculous excess
Un-thread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again discarded faith.
Out of her favour, where I am in love.